[2050 – The Day the Seasons Collapsed]
Mid-October.
The calendar said autumn, yet the city was frozen like winter.
Breaking news filled every screen.
Emergency briefings, citizen-shot videos, and hashtag clips surged like waves, announcing a single reality.
The anchor's voice leaked out, unable to mask the panic:
"This morning, the earliest recorded snowfall in history hit the capital region…"
On screen, city maples bent and snapped under the weight of snow.
Yellow ginkgo leaves lay buried under a white layer where a bicycle skidded and nearly toppled.
"Why is it snowing in autumn…?"
"Snow piling on autumn leaves—it looks pretty."
Children's startled voices spilled from citizen videos, hashtags fluttering across the screen:
#OctoberSnowfall #NoMoreAutumn #LeavesAndSnow
One clip showed a ridge blackened by wildfire damage,
immediately cutting to a city park now buried in snow.
Fire, snow, and autumn leaves—crossing strangely in one frame.
Scrolling captions from the Meteorological Agency ran below:
『October Snowfall – Consequence of Northwestern Atmospheric Instability』
『Jet Stream Inversions from Warming – Autumn Front Collides with Snow Front』
『Year 2050 – The Collapse of the Four Seasons Accelerates』
On the library's second floor, Jian stood by the window,
forehead resting lightly on the glass, staring silently outside.
Snow piled upon golden ginkgo leaves, while green leaves, still clinging to the branches, scattered in the wind.
Xia approached quietly, voice low.
"…Is this really the future we've been warning about?"
Jian's voice faltered.
Her eyes trembled as if staring at a line that should never be crossed.
Outside, snow kept falling.
Before the leaves had fully dropped, flakes blanketed the branches, red and white swaying together in the wind.
Still at the window, Jian's eyes carried unspoken questions—
and a heavy resolve she had not yet voiced.
The calendar still read autumn,
but the world had already frozen into winter.
"What we spoke of wasn't a prediction. It was a warning.
What we shared wasn't a game. It was a responsibility for the future."
In her hand, her phone screen flickered faintly.
A remnant log from the old LUKA system blinked weakly.
'System Restoration Failed.'
The gray text flashed a few times, then disappeared.
Back then, she never knew how painful snow on autumn leaves would feel.
That the word climate anomaly would no longer be an abstract headline,
but a reality pressing cold against her skin.
She traced a finger down the glass, following the falling snow.
The line vanished instantly, but her eyes grew sharper, steadier.
"No more waiting. Someone has to begin.
And if not us… no one else may carry this story to the end."
A quiet resolve was taking root within her chest.
At that moment, Jian was no longer just an onlooker of autumn leaves and snow.
She was becoming the one who must act.
Snow kept falling outside.
The wind swirled leaves and snow together, red and white clashing in confusion—
a world where seasons could no longer be told apart.
After a long silence, Jian pulled away from the glass and sat back at the table.
Xia, seated across, watched her quietly.
"Should we rest a little longer before organizing the data?"
Xia asked softly.
Jian shook her head.
"Xia, I need to tell you something."
She glanced at the laptop screen, then met Xia's eyes again.
"…You know, we both worked so hard on this."
Xia nodded. She remembered every practice session, every line rewritten, every night they held each other up.
"But…" Jian lowered her head, fidgeting with her phone.
"…Sometimes, even a small objection throws me off.
My words get tangled, and emotions come first.
Even if they come from sincerity, it makes me less persuasive."
Xia stayed silent, listening. She knew how heavy Jian carried her emotions.
"I want our story to be told right, all the way through.
So… Xia, would you present for us?
You could deliver our truth—quiet, steady, unshaken."
Silence hung. A single snowflake slid down the glass.
Finally, Xia nodded, as calm as the snowfall itself.
"…Alright. I'll do it."
Jian smiled faintly. They clasped hands across the table.
In that small warmth was the voice of the next generation—
a voice that had to be carried on, even in a world where the seasons had already collapsed.
[2050 Youth Climate Forum]
The main auditorium of the National Assembly annex.
Though the chill of early winter had seeped into the building,
the hall itself was warmed by the gathered crowd.
Projected high above the stage, the words "2050 Youth Climate Forum" glowed across the screen.
On one side sat student representatives, including Sia and Jian.
Opposite them were environmental activists and collaborators from various fields.
After a brief greeting from the moderator, Sia slowly walked to the center of the stage.
Her neatly trimmed bob framed her face, and though her eyes seemed tense, they held a quiet resolve.
Yet, once she stood before the microphone, her voice was astonishingly calm and clear.
"I'm not a special person. I'm just a student, like you, like all of us here.
All I did was speak when something felt wrong, ask questions when something didn't seem right."
Sia let her gaze travel gently across the audience before she continued.
"There were students who asked, 'Do we really need to carry tumblers everywhere?'
Or, 'Why is the school lunch always the same?'"
On the screen behind her, stories of change began to play one by one—
statistics comparing waste before and after the shared tumbler subscription system,
an interview with a young chef at the Vegan Food Lab who once complained about boring lunches,
and a graph showing the growth of a local solar energy cooperative.
"Advisor Kim Suyeon, who turned a simple idea of shared tumblers into a city-wide effort to cut waste.
Chef Han Jooyoung, who once grumbled about vegan meals,
now creating new dishes at a food lab.
All of it started from something small, a passing word, a simple question."
None of it was grand.
But each was an undeniable trace of change.
Her words were quiet, yet they pierced straight through.
"We don't have extraordinary powers or credentials.
But it's time we stop saying that young people can't be the ones to drive change."
Finally, Sia lifted her head, her voice ringing steady and clear.
"Maybe the first thing we need to change isn't the world,
but ourselves—the part of us that gave up too soon."
She brought a hand to her chest, speaking softly, but with unshakable strength.
"We cannot undo the past that created the climate crisis.
But here, now, we can take part in shaping the future.
We've already learned that one small word, one small act, can reach someone—
and that ripple can grow into something far greater.
The disasters ahead are frightening, yes.
But we will not give up.
Let's begin, together, right here, with whatever we can do."
A short silence.
Then, from within that stillness, soft applause began to spread across the hall.
The stage lights gently illuminated her figure.
Sia bowed her head and stepped down from the podium.
At that moment, Jian quietly reached out and held her hand.
They didn't look at each other, but their hands clasped tightly together.
From the audience, Han-na sat with her arms folded, silently watching.
There was a faint tremor in her expression, as if old memories long buried were stirring awake.
Just a few rows ahead, a neatly dressed couple sat together—
Sia's parents.
Her mother quietly dabbed her eyes with her fingertips,
while her father tightened his clasped hands against his chest.
In their gaze was the unfamiliar, yet proud silhouette of their daughter, standing strong.
When the forum ended, the group gathered in the lobby.
Jihyuk approached Sia slowly.
"Your speech… it was perfect. It sounded just like you.
I think I'll watch the debate from home instead, so… I'll see you tomorrow."
Sia smiled faintly, lowering her head without a word.
Jian, standing beside her, lifted a thumb in quiet approval.
Jihyuk gave a small wave and walked toward the exit.
Watching his back, Jian felt a sudden urge to call out to him.
But she only whispered his name inside her heart.
The words hovered on her lips, never spoken aloud.
Her fingertips trembled slightly with the unspoken feeling.
She steadied her breath and lowered her eyes, as if to hide it.
Soon, a neatly dressed couple approached—
Sia's parents.
Her mother gazed at her for a moment, then brushed away tears and spoke.
"Sia… you were wonderful. Seeing you stand so strong like that…"
Her father nodded firmly, adding,
"Now I understand. Why you were so determined all this time.
We kept holding you back with housework and your little brother… I'm sorry."
Her mother smiled faintly, placing a hand on Sia's arm.
"I used to scold you for whining whenever I asked you to carry groceries…
And now, here you are, speaking in front of so many people.
I finally see your dream. I only wish I had realized it sooner."
Overwhelmed, Sia fell silent for a moment before whispering,
"…Thank you for coming."
Her parents nodded quietly, preparing to leave.
As her father stepped out first, he looked back one last time.
"Our daughter… you're doing great. We'll see you at home."
With that, the couple walked away.
The group left behind stood in silence for a while,
their hearts carrying the weight of both the moment and the path still ahead.